"Stagnant times—no progress."

"No miserable jealousies, then; no doubtful
faith; no uncertain loyalty—no, by Saint
James, no uncertain loyalty—the whole
nation having one heart, that loved God and
hated the Moor: the one growing, elastic
hope of all, to crush, expel, or exterminate
that worshipper of the false prophet, whose
religion was founded on intolerance, cruelty,
and sensuality." (Abruptly to me) "What
do you think of the Porte?"

"Well," I said, smiling at the decanter
blandly to turn away his wrath, for Balthazar
hated joking on his favourite topics, "to tell
you the real truth, I prefer the sherry."

"Bah!" said Balthazar, scourging the
strings of his guitar with his angry hands,
and roaring out the verse of a ballad at
passing-bell intervals:

"His beard was like a horse's mane, his steed was
      varnish'd red
With Moorish blood his rider-king that cruel day
      had shed."

"You know not, you Englishmen, how to
be serious. When other men sing you are
sour; and when we are serious you
laugh. Bah! English people are a bizarre
people. True, Heaven certainly has given you
the power to buy and sell. But, suppose you
make cotton for all the world. What then!
Cui bono? Are you happier, or wiser, or
greater? Will Manchester ever produce a
CID?

"All crimson shone his suit of mail, all fiery shone
     his sword,
His breastplate steel was hewn across, his battle-axe
     was flaw'd."

"I hope not," I said; "but we have a
Bright."

"Don Bray-it? I know not the name.
Did he fight under the Duke?"

"More Moors, more plunder! cried the Cid, and
     buckled for the fight,
His shield was blazing like a sun, he rode a moving
     light."

"The watch-tower bell struck loud and quick, and
     all the gates flew back,
On every Moorish face there fell a sudden gloom of
     black;"

"As fourteen thousand horsemen came, in one hot
     flood of steel,
A sword at every good knight's side, a spur on
     every heel."

"All that," I said, "my good Don
Balthazar, is very well; but do you really mean
to say that you regret the rough old times,
when the biggest muscles and the toughest
head decided everything,—when kings fought
against barons, and barons against kings, and
both trampled on the poor man, and chose his
quiet little cabbage-garden as the place to
fight it out in,—when intellect and virtue, if
not good swordsmen, were always kicked out
of court, and when foppery in dress and
ridiculous ceremony were rampant
everywhere, side by side with a religion that
gagged all thinking, and made you swallow
miracles that would not go down now in our
very nurseries?"

"Look here," said Balthazar, rising up, and
gripping my wrist till my fingers got quite
red, "do you see that Moorish doorway,
down the hall, to the left?"

I said I did.

"And what do you see through that gate
of Paradise?"

"Much," I said. "Windows with pony-hoof
arches, divided by slender pillars of
alabaster, scarce bigger than sticks of
amber. Some of them are fretted and
engrailed: the openings pierced with little
pips, like the spades and diamonds in a pack
of cards. Thin lace-work fans out over the
crystalline ornaments on the doors and
panels. The wall space of the cloisters and
the cornices edging the roof-tiles, is
everywhere magic-marvellous, and beautiful as the
changing beauty of the skies."

"Go on," said Balthazar, drinking in my
words of admiration.

"I see everywhere wainscot mailings of
Moorish tiles reaching breast-high up the
walls, shining with a deep richness of greens,
browns, and blues. Above this is a casket-work
enamel of marble stucco, stamped
everywhere with the lion and castle of
Castille."

"O, never mind the seals of Charles and
Philip; confine yourself to the Moorish
work wrought for Pedro the Cruel, on the
the very spot where we stand, by artificers
from the newly finished Alhambra. Go outside,
and you will see over the principal
entrance above the three top windows, a
horizontal panel, surrounded by an inscription,
which looks like Cufic, but is really
Gothic, and runs thus:"

"'The very high, the very noble, and the very
powerful conqueror, Don Pedro, by the grace of God
King of Castille and of Leon, commanded these
alcazaras and these façades to be built, in the year
one thousand three hundred and sixty-four.'"

"I observed it," I said, "it was quite at
the top, and over it ran a cornice of cellular
work, like a section of a honeycomb, showing
the cells. Underneath is the great west door,
covered with a pattern such as you see when
you shake up a kaleidoscope to some specially
gorgeous and lucky combination."

"I see you appreciate the starry beauty of
those geometric and eternal flowers," said
Balthazar, eyeing me with paternal fondness,
seeing I was ready to ride behind him, on
the same hobby. "And you see it," he said,
"dinted and blurred by hundreds of years'
neglect and ill-usage; though Time seems
rather to kiss than gnaw these relics of art.
Wait till I, by the help of our Queen, am